#modern issues

[everythingseasoning]

Personally I think that that one Black Mirror Episode was uncannily sharp and hit the nail on the head about the invisible difference between AI and humans, that AI (when not fully sentient) will always have this air of lifelessness; there is a harsh clarity of the inherent disconnection between human and AI, post-intimacy. The main character, the widow, was so grief-stricken by the sudden death of her lover, so much so that when she was given the option to try out a copy of him through AI messaging, she took it. That then turned into AI calling, and then— a realistic human copy of her husband. During the calls she’d become enamored by how accurately the AI (a human machine fed data on the widow’s recently passed husband) portrayed her late husband. The compassionate responses, camaraderie and banter, the thoughtful advice— it all felt like him. They cooked together, talked, had intimacy. She fell for him, even knowing he wasn’t human. But after maybe just a week or so, the wife was having an emotional crises. She stood at a windy cliff overlooking the hard waves of the ocean below, crashing and foaming white on blue. She was going to push the AI model off, as she was feeling so hurt and confused and betrayed that he was imitating something that was once real— only— that’s what it was: an imitation. …I haven’t watched the episode recently, but I wholeheartedly believe that this was an accurate portrayal of what could happen in the future. How Black Mirror could conceptualize this years ago, I don’t know. It’s amazing.

[littlemizzlinguistics]

Studying linguistics is actually so wonderful because when you explain youth slang to older professors, instead of complaining about how "your generation can't speak right/ you're butchering the language" they light up and go “really? That’s so wonderful! What an innovative construction! Isn't language wonderful?"

[scorchingskys]

People need reminding that men's life expectancy went up when women could divorce their husbands because the till death do us part was taken quite literally in more than a few cases.

[ink-n-shadow]

single dad!Price just makes me picture odd hour check in’s, random video chats at the ass crack of morning but price and his little boy look so happy to each other that it’s worth it 😭😭

NO LITERALLY😭

like you've worked for helicopter parents before (and promptly never worked for them again), but price is one of the best kinds of helicopter parents. and it's mainly random texts of "how's the lad doing today?" or "did he eat his weetabix? if he didn't, try mixing it with his yogurt" so you can never get mad at him for it.

not even when it's almost midnight during one of your overnight stays and price is video-calling you, sweat caked on his forehead and his body rid of his gear at the safe house for the night.

"hey, sweetheart. i know it's real bloody late, but—"

and you're immediately cutting him off with a stern "john, stop, i know you just wanna see him," before you're pushing up out of john’s bed and padding across the bedroom to where liam's crib is tucked in the corner.

lowering the camera down, you focus on liam's sleeping face, the fat of his cheek smushed against the crib mattress and his pacifier hanging loosely from the corner of his parted lips. his hair (what little he has of it) is mussed up and splayed out across the soft skin of his forehead as he sleeps peacefully, his stuffed lion’s wrinkled head tucked safely beneath his chubby arm.

you don’t see the soft smile price wears on his cheeks, eyes full of fondness and fingers clumsily trying to take a screenshot as you let the camera stay on liam’s face for a bit longer before pulling it back towards you. that’s when you see the soft smile stretch into a grateful one.

“you’ve got the magic touch or somethin’, y’know that? y’know how many babysitters i’ve gone through jus’ ‘cause the little one couldn’t go t’sleep without me?” price’s body eases all of its tension as his eyes once again focus on yours again, watching you make your way back towards his bed and flopping down quietly onto it. “thank you for lettin’ me see him, sweetheart.”

[worms-for-brains]

Idk what possessed me to draw Soap like this, yet here we are

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

putting my prediction on record now that the coming decade is going to see the rise of viral-marketed fancy at-home water filtration systems, driving and driven by a drastic reduction in the quality of U.S. tap water (given that we are in a 'replacement era' where our current infrastructure is reaching the end of its lifespan--but isn't being replaced). also guessing that by the 2030s access to drinkable tap water will be a mainstream class issue, with low-income & unstably housed people increasingly forced to rely on expensive bottled water when they can't afford the up-front cost of at-home filtration--and with this being portrayed in media as a "moral failing" and short-sighted "choice," rather than a basic failure of our political & economic systems. really hope i'm just being alarmist, but plenty of this already happens in other countries, and the U.S. is in a state of decline, so. here's praying this post ages into irrelevance. timestamped April 2023

[resident-idiot-simp]

People are always looking out for Ghost afraid to piss him off. But during that they neglect to realize that the true problem is Soap. He's got a smile that can light the room but he is the quickest to anger. And his anger and temper are hot and explosive just like his bombs.

Soap will be the first one to hold a knife to your throat because you said something that he didn't agree with. GHOST is the one to pull him off.

[drowninginseaofstars]

Kisses

cw: Ghost lowkey being a creep, brief illusion to Ghost's backstory, death, blood, spit

Before Simon could trust you enough to pull up his mask, his kisses were always through the damn mask. It didn’t matter if the material scratched your skin or felt uncomfortable against your lips; nor did it matter if it leaves a dark damp spot around where his lips would be. He liked it even, leaving his mask on just to wear the smell of you like a cologne.  

He huffed like a quiet silent laugh when you pointed it out, said he was being weird.

He shrugged.

There was something strangely intimate yet frustrating in the way he’d insist on kissing you through the mask at every opportunity he got. To your surprise, he does, in fact, love kissing, maybe even too much.

Sometimes he would open his jaw before he kisses you, holding your chin in place so you can see the way the wool stretches opened, his eyes are half-lidded but they’re focused on you.

Like a beast showing his fangs, except you don’t see them.

You feel them.

It pulls against the fabric, itching and struggle to fight against the barrier of the mask, sharp pointy surfaces dragged along your skin. He unhinges his jaw far enough to devour your lips whole, love it when you gasp and tried to pull away, only for him to grip your neck, palm squeezing your waist like a silent warning.

He growls and rumbled deep in his chest, the vibration sending shivers down your spine, he makes sure you feel it, pressing his body close to you, and he drags his head up and down across your face, huffing and nibbling your skin, leaving a wet trail behind. 

Like a satiated wolf.

The day he finally lifted the mask to kiss you properly, you almost laughed from disbelief. For all the secrecy, for all the teasing his friends—the rowdy military bunch, his family, had thrown your way about the horrors his mask might conceal, his face was almost... ordinary. He looked like a regular bloke from Manchester, the kind you’d pass on the street without a second glance, often the ones who had the stare that makes your hair stand up. Sure, there were faint scars—a thin line across the bridge of his nose, a small nick on his forehead—but nothing like the grotesque imagery you’d imagined. His chin carried a hint of scruff, spiky and coarse, the kind that scratched against your skin when the angle was just a bit off. You stared at him, insulted by the simplicity of his appearance, and he gave you one of those smirk, the corners of his eyes crinkling as if he knew exactly what you were thinking.

“Disappointed, darlin’?”

When Simon kissed you after months away on deployment, it was as if he’d been wandering a desert, parched and hopeless, finally stumbling upon an oasis, a fresh pond of sweet nectar. You don't get a warning before his lips crashed into yours with a force that bordered on desperation, his hands slipping through your hair, tugging and pulling gently as if to tether himself to reality. All groans and grunt, all growls and bites, pulling away, watching the strings of saliva connecting them. He kissed like the world might end the second he pulled away.

It would. Something in his head said. Voices buzzing, repeating, leaking out his ears, the syllabus tightening around his neck, mumbling something like they'll end up like you, like your mother, you're pulling them into death, always ruining the lives of others—

When he had his fill, when the adrenaline, the noises in his head quiet down enough, he leans down and lays a gentle peck on your forehead, purring something like an apology.

Indeed, there are other times when his kisses were featherlight, tentative, as though afraid he might break you, that he was handling a precious glass sculpture that was you. It was this maddening duality that made you dizzy—the gentleness of a man who’d seen too much pain, juxtaposed with the raw hunger of someone who’d been starved of touch, of sweet things like you. 

Then there was the peculiar way Simon fixated on your lower lip. You’ll know it when he pauses a few second too long, eyes blown out and his breath are slow and deep, heavy. He’d tug it gently into his mouth, rolling the soft flesh between his lips lazily. He’d hold your jaw, drifting his bare rough palm down the side of your jugular, squeezing, holding you still, guiding you into the position he wanted, breaking into a mean smile when you protest weakly and writhe around. Sometimes he’d suck on it like a pacifier, his tongue tracing its contour, making you squirm under his touch. Inevitably, saliva would gather and trickle down your jaw, but Simon never seemed to mind. 

“Makin’ a mess f’ me, hm?” He grumbled, like he didn’t spit on your lips just seconds ago, mixing your taste with his, slobbering, sticky and disgusting. 

Bastard, you think of him, the way he found a quiet kind of joy in this indulgence. Perhaps it was the way your lower lip would puff up, rosy and swollen, making you look extra pouty. Or maybe it was how your nose would scrunch in mild annoyance, your cheeks flushing under his teasing smirk. He loved riling you up, alternating between gently pulling your lip and giving it a playful bite, pulling it like a puppy with its favourite bone. His teeth would graze the tender flesh, leaving the faintest sting, just enough to make you gasp. He’d laugh at your reaction, his voice low and gravelly with a teasing lilt in his tone. For shits and giggles, he’d let you feel the faint scrape of his canines, murmuring something cheeky about marking you.

“My favourite chew toy.” he coos when you whined, clicking his tongue and tutting lowly, shaking his head before he goes back to biting your lips.

You try not to remember the feral glint in his eyes when he tasted copper one time, how he let out a guttural moan, licking away the red slowly, only stopping when you nudged him away.

You catch the same stare sometimes when he sunk his canine just a tad bit deeper, watching your reaction, as if waiting for your permission for him to draw blood again.

Maybe one day you’ll indulge.

[extrahorribledynne]

honestly who could even want a season 3 this is literally 'the everything else' of gravity falls. i'm not left wanting. i'm feasting on everything from the book of bill and thisisnotawebsite. the only thing i want is to rewatch the entire show again

like it leaves it in 'our' (the readers) hands. what do YOU see in ciphers corpse? is it the end? is it only the beginning? we were invited to participate both in the book (literally, with it making asks to write this, put your hand here, etc) and the website code hunt. its up to you. here are the pieces of everything after the end. have fun.

[hood-ex]

Reading older comics like I love this, this is so dumb 😭 and reading modern comics like I hate this, this is so dumb 😒.

[discordiansamba]

modern au aang in which he is up to date on all the Latest Memes(tm) vs modern au zuko who is extremely offline and has no idea what he's talking about.

(modern au iroh who knows more about what the kids are into than his nephew does, who simply lives in a constant state of ??????????)

[elbiotipo]

There was a longer, better article about this, but it's interesting that virtually all fantasy is reactionary in the sense that the heroes are questing (almost, of course there are exceptions) to turn things back to what they were. Either stopping a great evil that is going to destroy the current world which is Fine As It Is, or living in a dystopian evil empire and try to return the Old Kingdom or the Old Republic which was good and nostalgic. It's always "the Old Days were better" or "we must preserve our current way of life", never "we will build a better future beyond our current society".

[stars-obsession-pit]

So, fun fact:

John Constantine got a transfusion of some demonic blood to repair his injuries at one point (since the demon needed him healthy to complete a certain task), and it left some lasting effects on his body/soul.

I don’t yet have a single specific plot idea for how to have it contribute to the plot of a DPxDC crossover fic, but i feel like it could absolutely do something.

Like maybe it’s treated similarly to resurrection by Lazarus Water and leaves him a type of unhealthy liminal, but since this is demonic in nature, the corruption’s effects/treatment are way different from Lazarus stuff.

Or maybe it makes him just inhuman enough to fall slightly under the Ghost King’s control, leading to him being dragged into ghostly politics by that.

Or maybe he actually dies and becomes a ghost, but the blood makes him into a sorta half-ghost half-demon entity. Though the soul contracts would likely muddy the water even further with any “dying” stuff…

[soaqrudyz]

i am of the firm belief that neither ghost or gaz cared very much for soap when he first joined the 141

gaz had never met him before, all he knew was the guy was just a little bit of a prick. he was incredibly talented, gaz would give him that, and he’d never been outwardly rude to anyone that gaz had heard of, but oftentimes his confidence bled into something just short of arrogance, soap always seemed to be the one ranting and raving about his achievements when everyone else spoke of their mistakes. in layman’s terms: he was full of himself in a way that would surely get him killed.

ghost; however, had met him before. they’d worked together some three times before price recruited soap. ghost knew of his skill, knew that sunny disposition got quieter at night when soap thought he was alone, knew soap would thrive with them; but god, if ghost could shove his thumbs into those all-seeing, all-knowing crystal eyes he’d do so in a heartbeat. he hated the way they seemed to burn straight through the heavy material of his mask, how they could look into his own eyes and hold infinite knowledge of his broken psyche by the time they flick to some other uninteresting member of his former squadron. it was horror, to be understood so wholly.

but then gaz got hurt, four days of medically induced coma hurt, and when he jerked awake at, if the clock on the shitty hospital tv was to be believed, 2 in the morning there was soap. he looked disheveled: hair a tangled mess, dark circles only worsened by the shadows of the mostly unlit room, and covered in scattered butterfly sutures. his head was leaned on his bicep, slumped over the lowered tray connected to gaz’s bed.

under his head were the blood and tear stained pages of his open journal, a gorgeous portrait of gaz sketched onto the yellowed sheets with sleep deprived rantings in the margins on how soap could have saved him if he’d just been quicker. gaz slips it out from under him, only feeling a tiny bit like an ass for flipping through the leather bound soul of his comrade, but soap had stolen his favorite shirt so it stood to reason he should take something back. the entire 141 is scribbled on in the pages, buried between bomb schematics and scenic landscapes and soap’s scrawled insecurities. something shifts as he soaks in the words, months of feeling like an outsider and desperate tries to be as good as his teammates.

it’s different, gaz thinks as he flips back to his own face, being in the mind of john mactavish.

but then ghost is walking past price’s office and soap bursts out, pushing past him with flushed cheeks and hurried apologies, practically sprinting in the direction of his shared room. ghost, loathe to admit it, was worried, afraid that the first real human connection aside from garrick he’d had in years was going to ripped from him before he’d even started putting time into it. he didn’t want to lose something good, not again, so he follows him, rushes to catch him before he slams the door in ghost’s face.

soap’s shoving clothes into his duffle when ghost slips inside his room, noticeably holding back tears as he rambles to himself. for a minute ghost is stuck, unused to such blatantly shown emotion, but then he takes a step, sets a gentle hand on soap’s shoulder and asks what’s going on, heart thudding against his ribcage.

“my ma..” soap croakes, and heavy sobs break up whatever else he was going to say. he doesn’t have to, ghost knows, probably better than anyone else.he does the first thing that comes to mind: he drags soap into his chest, wraps his whole body around him like he can protect soap from the hurt. the sergeant doesn’t deserve to feel that hollowness in his chest. soap crashes into him like a wave to the shore, balling his hands into ghost’s hoodie and hiding his face in ghost’s collarbones. ghost had never been one for physical closeness, but there was something different about being in johnny’s arms.

there was an obvious difference in their demeanor toward him in the weeks to come, but neither really cared about how it happened, just that it did, and now they can seek each other’s warm, pink tinted gaze when soap makes a fool of himself.

[ink-n-shadow]

I am begging on my knees for more Babysitter!Price SMAU. It’s really good. Feel free to ignore this ofc, don’t wanna make you feel pressured! All your SMAU’s and other works are freaking amazing!

i am so sorry that this part took so long. i have been so busy and tired recently )): so the creative motivation to write this was a little lacking. hopefully y'all like it ;-;

[ DADDY ISSUES ] 𝜗𝜚 the text series where price hires you as his babysitter

⤷ part 𝜗𝜚 one , two , three , four 𝜗𝜚 pairing: single dad!price x babysitter!reader 𝜗𝜚 cw: price to the rescue, slightly possessive!price?, price being jealous of some random man